


Dancin' All Around It

by Whedonista93



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, Detective Bronn, F/M, Family, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Not Cateyln friendly, Professor Sandor, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:08:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26456941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whedonista93/pseuds/Whedonista93
Summary: Fate seems to keep crossing their paths.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 56
Kudos: 119





	1. Medieval Weaponry

**Author's Note:**

> title from the Alan Jackson song :)

Sansa agrees to take Medieval Weapons with Arya with minimal needling. She’s just grateful her sister wants to do something together. When she walks in and sees the professor, she feels her knees go a little weak, and finds herself feeling grateful that Arya wants to sit right in the front of the lecture hall.

The professor is younger than most. He’s almost ridiculously tall, and just as broad - his shirt is actually straining against his chest. His boots are stained, his jeans hug every muscle, and he has the sleeves of his button up rolled to just below his elbows. His hair curls loosely around his face and  _ oh _ , her eyes widen minutely at the scars on his face, something she can’t name tugging at her heart. 

Then he speaks, and his voice reminds her of gravel roads and her father’s favorite bourbon and she determines then and there that she is going to make this man notice her.

* * *

The tour guide finishes explaining a series of weapons inspired by the fire of the dragons of old, then says something in Ancient Valyrian, and the pillar they’re standing next to sets alight. Professor Clegane stumbles back so quickly he knocks over the patron behind him.

Thinking quickly, Sansa spins and grabs his arm, apologizing profusely. “Oh! I am so sorry, Professor! I was just so close to the pillar and the fire startled me, and gods, I swear I’m not usually such a klutz! I nearly knocked you over.” She glances over his shoulder and the other patron, getting to their feet. “I am so sorry! Are you alright? All my fault, are you sure you’re alright?” She smiles at the young man and he nods, then wanders away a bit dazedly. She grins up at the professor, then turns back to their tour guide and makes sure to keep herself between the professor and the still flaming pillar until they move on to the next exhibit. She can’t help but smile when he hovers near her until they part for lunch.

“May I join you?”

Sansa looks up from the little corner table she’d hidden at to eat her noodles, surprised to see Professor Clegane towering over her. She nods quickly. “Of course!”

He tucks himself into the chair across the narrow table, setting his own burger down in the limited available space. He looks down. “I wanted to say thank you.”

Sansa forces her eyes away from his shoulders and up to his face. “Hm?”

“For earlier,” he waves vaguely. “With the fire.”

“Oh, of course. I… well, I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed.” She shrugs. “And I imagine you have a good reason for being uncomfortable with fire,” she adds softly.

The professor scoffs. “Uncomfortable? You mean bloody well terrified.”

Sansa shrugs again.

He looks down at his food again. “I was nine,” he tells her in a near whisper, “when my brother came home and found me playing with his old toy soldiers. He was fifteen. There was no reason for him to care, but… he decided I stole them and stuck my head in the fire place until my screams got our father’s attention.”

Sansa feels tears jump into her eyes and reaches out, gently caressing his scarred cheek before she can stop herself. “Gods, that’s awful! You were just a child!”

The professor looks back up at her and smiles wanly, reaches across and gently brushes the tears from her eyes with calloused fingers. “Don’t cry for me.”

“I can’t help it,” Sansa frowns indignantly.

He chuckles mirthlessly. “It was a long time ago.”

“It’s still awful. Your brother…”

“I don’t know. My father… he had some unsavory connections. I don’t know what happened to Gregor, but I haven’t seen him since that day. My father never told me, and I never asked, but looking back… he probably sent Gregor to be some mobster’s lapdog. Fuck, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you… I’ve never told anyone this.”

Sansa offers a small smile. “It’s alright.” She brushes her thumb across his cheek again. “Does it hurt?”

He shakes his head. “Most of the nerve endings are dead. Sensations, for the most part. A bit of actually feeling around my lips and ear.”

Sansa has a sudden thought of kissing him, and mentally shakes herself.

“Sansa!” Arya’s voice sends them springing apart.

Sansa takes a deep breath, then sticks her head around the side of the booth. “Here, Arya!”

“Oh thank the gods!” Arya slides into the booth next to her with a groan. “Whole fucking place is packed. Thought I was gonna have to eat standing up. Professor,” she nods to Professor Clegane before tucking into her burger with abandon.

Sansa elbows her. “Manners.”

Arya sticks her tongue out, and the final bit of tension in the air is broken.


	2. Theatre

“Professor Clegane will be helping us with the fight sequences,” the theatre director announces as the man himself strides onto the stage.

Sansa’s breath catches. She’s never seen him in anything so casual - gray sweats and a well-worn black t-shirt. It’s a very appealing picture.

“But before we get to that,” the director continues, “we need to rehearse the opening number in the new key.”

Sansa feels frozen in place.  _ Seven hells! _ She doesn’t know how to survive having to sing in front of the man she’s been lusting after for a solid year.

“Miss Stark?” The director prompts.

Sansa slowly stands from her seat and makes her way to the stage. She forces herself to close her eyes, instead of focusing on who’s listening, and opens her mouth. She keeps her eyes closed until the song ends.

“Wonderful!” The director praises. “But perhaps make sure to keep our eyes open during the actual performance, eh?”

Sansa blushes furiously, but nods. “Of course.” She rushes to the wings, and runs smackdab into the solid plane of Professor Clegane’s chest.

He laughs and catches her elbows, steadying her. “Easy there, Little Bird.”

Sansa looks up at him with a frown. “Little Bird?”

“Aye,” he smiles. “Singin’ all pretty like.”

Sansa blushes again. “You liked it?”

His lips twist up in something close to a smile. “Aye.”

“Professor Clegane?” The director calls. 

“I believe that’s my cue.” He releases her arms and steps back, but holds an arm out to her.

She looks down curiously and notices the half-cinched leather bracers covering his forearms. 

He grins ruefully. “They’re wooden swords, but they still sting like a bitch when these lads swing wild.”

Sansa laughs delightedly, and obligingly reaches down to tie the bracers up for him. She gives into an impulse and runs her thumbs over his wrists once she’s finished. “All set.”

He clears his throats and nods, pulling his arms back slowly. “Thanks.”

Sansa winks. “Anytime.”


	3. Ren Faire

It takes as little convincing to get Arya to go to the Renaissance festival with her as it took Arya to get Sansa to take the Medieval Weaponry class.

Unfortunately, Sansa realizes the error in her plan precisely two minutes after they arrive.

Her sister’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “What are you looking for?”

Sansa stops sharply in her tracks. “Nothing.”

Arya arches a dark brow. “You’re a shit liar, San.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “ _Fine_. I was looking for the blacksmith’s tent.”

“Why would y- Oh. My. Gods. You dragged me to a Ren Faire, _two hours away_ , so you could ogle Professor Scowly!”

“I did not!” Sansa protests, though she knows her rising blush gives her away.

“What was that about ogling?” Sansa asks archly a few minutes later, as Arya practically drools over the young man swinging a hammer over an anvil.

“Shut up,” Arya retorts weakly.

“Little Bird?”

Sansa spins toward Professor Clegane’s voice with a smile. “Professor!”

His lips twitch. “You can call me Sandor, Little Bird. I haven’t been your professor in almost a year.”

Sansa shrugs and blushes. “Habit.”

“Call me Sandor, please.”

Sansa nods. “If you want me to.”

“Aye.”

“Gag,” Arya shudders.

Sansa turns to her sister with an arched brow. “Perhaps if you were nicer, Sandor would introduce you to the young man you’ve spent the last five minutes drooling over.”

“San!” Arya protests.

Sansa just smirks and sticks her tongue out.

* * *

She still calls him ‘Professor’ when she passes him in the halls, but she calls him Sandor when she brings him coffee in his office before morning classes, and when they meet for lunch at a little cafe halfway across town on Wednesdays, and when he gives her a ride home or to work on the days he manages to get out of his office on time.


	4. Burn

Sansa’s shift at the downtown restaurant she works at ends about two hours before her roommate’s one night, and she decides to catch a nap in the front seat of Margaery’s jeep instead of taking a bus. It’s a nice neighborhood, well-lit and generally well-partolled. It’s not the first time she’s taken a nap waiting for Marg, so she doesn’t think anything of it until the sound of shattering glass jolts her into awareness. She sits up and looks out the window to find Joffery Baratheon grinning at her through the glass.

“What the fuck, Joff?” Sansa demands. “Did you just break the window on Marg’s jeep just to scare me?” She glances over her shoulder and her blood runs cold. Flames are engulfing the back seat. Sansa screams and tries the handle. The door won’t budge. 

Joffrey waggles his fingers at her. “Burn in the hells, bitch.” Then he saunters down the street.

The heat of the spreading flames draws Sansa’s attention, and she redoubles her efforts to get out of the car. Her door won’t budge, and her window won’t roll down. She scrambles over to the driver’s seat and tries that door, with the same results, a mere second before a second flaming projectile is launched through the windshield and into the seat she just vacated.

A knock on the window behind her head staves off the threatening panic attack. Her head whips around. She’s never been so grateful to see Sandor in her life.

“Back up!” He shouts through the window.

Sansa scrambles up onto the center console, wincing at the heat of the flames burning up the passenger seat.

Sandor uses his elbow to bust the driver’s window out, then holds a hand out. Sansa dives toward him, and he catches her easily, pulling her through the window and across the road, where he collapses on the curb, bringing Sansa down with him. Sansa simply leans into him, trying to catch her breath, unable to tear her eyes from the flaming heap of her friend’s car.

Behind her, Sandor trembles.

Sansa turns in his arms and sees the panic in his eyes.

She raises her hands to cup his face. “Sandor, look at me. You’re safe. I’m safe. We’re away from the fire.” She squeezes his face, forces his eyes to hers. “Look at me, Sandor! Breathe with me.” She takes several exaggerated breaths, and smiles when Sandor slowly starts to match her.

Sandor drops his head to her shoulder. “You’re the one that almost got burned alive and I’m the one having a fucking panic attack.”

Sansa reaches up and tangles one hand in the curls at his neck. “I’m pretty sure I would be having one if I wasn’t talking you out of one.” She gives into the impulse to drop a light kiss to his temple. “Thank you, Sandor.”

Sirens sound, and the next indeterminate amount of time passes in a bit of a blur. Police arrive first, the fire department close behind, and finally an ambulance. Sansa has minor burns on her back and on her right arm, and gashes on her left thigh and shoulder from the broken glass of the window Sandor had broken to rescue her. Sandor has a laceration on his right elbow from breaking the glass, and various minor cuts on his forearms from pulling her out of the car.

“Sansa!” Margaery’s panicked voice carries across the street.

“Over here!” Sansa calls from the back of the ambulance.

Margaery hurries over, simply scowling at the police officer that tries to stop her. “What the hells?”

“Joff,” Sansa bites out.

Margaery lets out a stream of curses in French. “I’m calling Gran. She’ll send a lawyer.”

Sansa refuses to ride in the ambulance, so Sandor piles her into his truck, remaining silent when Margaery scrambles in next to her, ear glued to her phone. Two hours later, one of the Tyrell lawyers meets them at the police department. The only time Sandor leaves her side is when she goes into the interview room with a detective.

The detective introduces himself as Blackwater, and is crass in a way that reminds Sansa enough of Sandor to relax and speak with him openly. She tells him everything from the abusive high school relationship with Joffrey, to his wormy expression outside the window as the flames climbed up the seats.

Blackwater looks over his notes, nodding absently to himself. “Right, just about done then. The big bloke who pulled you out?”

Sansa nods. “Sandor.”

“Friend?”

Sansa smiles. “Yes.”

“When I spoke with him, he said if it was anyone but you, he didn’t know if he would’ve done the same thing. Any idea what he might have meant by that?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Sansa exhales, the reality of tonight’s events slowing for perspective to sink in. “He… gods, I don’t know how he did it even though it was me. Sandor is _terrified_ of fire. An incident from his childhood. He… gods.”

“He cares a great deal for you,” Blackwater infers.

Sansa nods. “We care a great deal for each other.”

“Did you tell him who started the fire?”

Sansa frowns, thinking back, then shakes her head. “No. He had a panic attack, as soon as we got across the street. Then the police were there. And he was across the street talking to one of your officers when I told Marg who it was.”

Blackwater nods and jots down another note. “He identified Mr. Lannister as the suspect as well. Just had to make sure he actually saw him. Wasn’t just sayin’ so ‘cause you did.”

Sansa wants to argue that Sandor would never, but realizes the detective is just doing his job and bites her tongue. 

“I would recommend not staying in your apartment until Mr. Lannister is apprehended,” Blackwater tells them as they finally get ready to leave.

Margaery nods. “Gran is flying me home as soon as I get out of here. San, you’re welcome along.”

Sansa shakes her head. “You know I can’t miss any classes, Marg.”

Margaery winces and nods, then steps outside to call her grandmother.

“You can stay with me, Little Bird.”

Sansa’s head snaps up. “Sandor, are you sure? I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Sandor nods. “Aye. Likely won’t sleep if you aren’t where I can see you anyway.”

Sansa smiles gratefully. “Thank you.”

Blackwater claps his hands together. “Right, then, now that that’s settled. We’ll get a uniform to escort you over to get anything you need from your apartment.” He yells down the hall at someone Sansa can’t see, then follows them outside. As soon as they’re outside of the building, he exhales loudly. “Fucking Lannisters.”

Sansa raises a brow.

“Sorry, lass. Gotta be professional and all that. I’d throw the little cunt in jail just for the pleasure of sendin’ a big ‘fuck you’ to his bitch of a mother.”

“I take it you’re acquainted with Cersei,” Sansa infers.

“Used to work for her brother.” Blackwater shrugs. “Poker still at your place this weekend, Clegane, or you wanna see if someone else can take it?”

Sandor shakes his head. “Leave it be.”

Blackwater shakes a cigarette out and lights it with a shrug. “Alright.” A marked car pulls around the side of the building. “That’s for you. Later, fucker.”

Sandor rolls his eyes, but waves as he shuffles Sansa and Margaery into his truck.

Sansa shamelessly snuggles into his side when he crawls behind the wheel, careful of his elbow. “I take it you know the detective?”

Sandor lifts his arm, and Sansa takes the invitation to burrow deeper into his side as he settles it over her shoulders. “Aye. Go way back. He’s a mouthy bastard, but he’s a good cop. He’ll do right by you.”

Sansa nods and simply settles into him. The ride to their apartment is short. It’s awkward, having the police officer hovering as they hastily pack bags, but Sandor leaning in the doorway of her bedroom actually makes her feel better.

“Shit!” Sansa stops dead on her way back through the living room. “Marg! What’re we going to do with the food? We don’t know how long we’re going to be gone!”

“Take it with you!” Margaery calls back. “I don’t need and there’s no telling what Professor Hotstuff has got stocked. Should be some empty Amazon boxes in the hall closet.”

Sansa shrugs, but sets about loading up the kitchen as Sandor silently takes boxes and bags down to his truck as she fills them. She hugs Margaery goodbye and promises to text her friend the next day. She almost falls asleep on the short ride to Sandor’s apartment. When he helps her out of the truck, she sees the exhaustion setting in on him too. Before she can say anything, her leg buckles under her.

Sandor catches her easily, scooping her up bridal style and striding into the building.

“The food!” Sansa protests.

Sandor doesn’t respond, but stops in front of the first door on the second floor and kicks it none-too-gently. There’s cursing from within, and a moment later a dark-haired young man opens the door in nothing but sleep pants.

Sandor smirks tiredly. “Sorry to wake you up, Pod.”

Pod waves a hand dismissively. “We all fell asleep in the living room. Probably a good thing you did.”

Sandor jerks his head over his shoulder. “Got a bunch of shit in my truck. Pizza on me tomorrow if you cart it up to my apartment.”

Pod grins and salutes, then turns and shouts into the apartment.

Sansa’s eyes widen at the thundering from within, then three more young men, in a various assortment of sleepwear - or lack thereof - show up behind Pod. Recognition seeps in and Sansa realizes they’re all on the football team.

“We’ll have it right up,” Pod promises. 

An awkward pocket-fishing session later, in which Sandor is unwilling to set Sansa back on her feet, they make it into Sandor’s apartment across the hall.

“You live next to a bunch of football players?” Sansa asks as he settles her on the well-worn leather couch. She can’t help but wince at the pain that lances through her leg.

Sandor shrugs. “They’re good lads. All scholarship kids. Cheaper to split their apartment than pay the room and board fees on campus. They work their asses off between classes, football, and actual jobs. Best behaved college boys I’ve ever met. Where’re the meds the doc sent?”

Sansa waves vaguely to the small backpack she uses as a purse, grateful that she had apparently forgotten it in her locker at work; Margaery had had it with her when she came out.

Sandor fishes the pharmacy bag out of the side pocket and glances over the instructions, then disappears into the kitchen. His front door opens a moments later, revealing the four football players laden with boxes and bags. Sansa’s suitcases are set gently next to the door and the rest is piled on the sturdy little wooden table against the wall next to the kitchen. Sansa starts to stand.

“Don’t even think about it,” Sandor appears in front of her, pushing her gently back down. And offering her a container of steaming microwave soup. “Hope chicken and rice is okay.”

Sansa smiles. “It’s wonderful Sandor.”

He stares at her expectantly until she sips at the soup. He returns to the kitchen, then returns with the two prescriptions - pain meds and antibiotics to avoid the lacerations or burns getting infected - and a glass of water. “Supposed to take ‘em with food,” Sandor mutters.

Sansa dutifully finishes about half the soup before taking the pills and then gulping down the rest of the soup, watching idly as the boys from next door unload the cold boxes into Sandor’s fridge.

“Anything else?” Pod asks politely.

Sandor shakes his head. “Just text me what you want when you’re ready for pizza.”

Podrick grins. “Will do! Good night.”

“Wait!” Sansa sits up straight. “What kind of cookies do you like?”

Podrick’s face scrunches in confusion.

“Cookies. What kind of cookies do you like?”

“Uh…”

Sandor rolls his eyes. “That’ll be the pain meds kicking in, but I think she’s trying to offer to make you cookies.”

Sansa nods enthusiastically. “Yes!” She turns to Sandor, face serious. “Sandor, am I high?”

Sandor glances down at the bottle of pain meds and chuckles. “Aye, maybe a bit.”

Sansa nods, then shrugs. “Right. Anyway,” she turns back to Pod. “Cookies.”

Pod’s expression softens. “Oh. Uh… are you the one that made those lemon drop cookies?”

Sansa beams and bounces excitedly on the couch, then curses when it pulls at the stitches in her thigh. “Shit! Ow. Sorry. Yeah, though! They’re my specialty!”

“Right. Uh, they were really good.”

Sansa opens her mouth to respond, but gets distracted when a large black dog saunters in and plants his massive head right in her lap. “Awh! Puppy!” She scratches behind his ears. “You must be the mysterious Stranger.”

Sandor rolls his eyes. “Right. Pizza and cookies. Thanks again, lads.”

Pod just nods and then they all stride back across the hall, Sandor getting up to lock and close the door behind them. When he turns around, Sansa has her arms around Stranger’s neck, and her cheek resting against the top of his head, apparently dozing again. He takes his phone out and snaps a quick picture, then moves over and shoos Stranger away, bending to pick her up again.

“Hmm?” Sansa hums against his neck.

“Takin’ you to the bed, Little Bird.”

“Gotta pee,” she mumbles.

Sandor laughs and detours to the bathroom, letting her go in on her own, but leaving the door cracked and listening intently until he hears a flush, then the sink. Sansa shrieks indignantly, and Sandor shoves the door open.

Sansa is staring in the mirror in horror, holding up the scorched ends of her hair. “I was out in public for _hours_ like this?!”

Sandor chuckles. “Still pretty, Little Bird. I’ll take you to a salon tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

Sansa pouts, but lets him pick her up and carry her the rest of the way into the bedroom. She frowns. “This is your room.”

“Aye,” he lays her gently on the bed.

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“Couch.”

“No!” Sansa tries to scramble out of the bed, only for Sandor to gently push her back. She scowls up at him. “I am not taking your bed. You’re too tall to sleep on the couch.”

“So’re you. And only one bed.”

“Then we share it,” Sansa reasons.

Sandor freezes. “Sansa…”

She shakes her head. “It’s plenty big enough. We can talk about it tomorrow. Please, Sandor.”

An expression she can’t read in her current state crosses his face, but he nods. “Alright. Be right back.”

Sansa hums happily and settles back against the pillows. She’s snoring lightly, passed out on top of the covers, by the time he comes back from brushing his teeth. He kicks out of his boots and jeans, tugs off his overshirt and all but collapses next to her, tugging the massive quilt he keeps folded at the end of the bed over them both.


	5. Hound

Sansa’s doctor had ordered her off her leg for the last week remaining before fall break, and to take it easy for at least a week after that. Sandor takes care of everything with the school and the restaurant before she even wakes up the next morning. He brings all of the week’s work home with him, including all her midterms that don’t have to be proctored, and word from the rest of her professors that they’ll arrange something with her after break. Her boss sends along a note promising to clear her schedule for the next two weeks, and tells her to call him at the end of the two weeks to see what she thinks she can handle. Sansa, high on pain meds and overly emotional, bursts into tears and clings to Sandor as he awkwardly pats her back.

* * *

Sandor gets home late Friday night and finds Sansa standing in the kitchen. “Shouldn’t be up, Little Bird.”

Sansa reaches behind her and absently pats his arm, without taking her eyes from the pot in front of her. “I’m fine. Are Pod and the boys home? I made enough spaghetti to feed a small army, and I finally felt like I could stand up long enough to make those cookies today.”

Sandor’s lips quirk. “I’ll go see, lass.”

Dinner turns into dinner and a movie, though the movie is spent with all four boys bemoaning that they ate too much and debating which of them Coach Tarth is going to manage to make puke first at morning practice. 

Sansa giggles.

“Not gonna go all green at the talk of puke?” Pod teases.

Sansa pops the remainder of her cookie in her mouth and rolls her eyes. “I’m from the far North and I have five brothers, Pod. Far from squeamish.”

After the boys leave, Sansa finds Sandor staring at her.

She arches a brow.

Sandor shrugs. “You mentioned your brothers. Made me think… shouldn’t you be heading home for Thanksgiving?”

Sansa shrugs. “Already told mom I wasn’t coming this year. Honestly, just… really not up to it. Mom thinks I’m hiding a guy.” She knocks Sandor’s feet off the table and settles in next to him on the couch. “She’s not entirely wrong.”

The conversation fades.

* * *

The next afternoon, Sansa is a flurry of motion in his kitchen.

“You still shouldn’t be up on that leg,” Sandor chides Sansa for what feels like the fifth time today. “And you really don’t have to cook for these bastards.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “I am an intruder on a sacred tradition of men,” she tells him, faux-sternly. “The least I can do is cook.”

Sandor rolls his eyes back. “If you say so. What are you making anyway?”

Sansa beams at him over the island. “Northern beef stew and homemade rolls.” She lifts the lid off the large stock pot and wafts the steam toward him.

His mouth actually waters. “I might have to keep you, Miss Stark.”

Sansa’s eyes shine. “I might just stay, Professor Clegane.”

Someone pounds on the door, and Sansa curses silently, beginning to hate all the little almost-moments between them.

“It’s open!” Sandor calls.

The pounding ceases and Detective Blackwater walks in with someone Sansa did not expect to see. “Tyrion?!”

Tyrion spins toward her and smiles broadly. “Sansa?!”

Sansa squeals and darts from the kitchen, immediately going down on her knees to hug him tightly. “Gods, it’s good to see you!”

“Even if my vile nephew just tried to kill you?” Tyrion asks wryly.

Sansa releases him and pulls back. “Because you’ve ever had anything to do with him.”

Tyrion shrugs. “Still.”

Sansa just grins back, and goes to stand, then curses. “Fucking hells. Sa-”

Sandor is at her side, gently lifting her to her feet.

She leans against him for a moment, wincing at the pain radiating through her leg.

“Alright, Little Bird?”

Sansa just buries her face in his chest, breathing slowly and letting the sensations in her leg settle. Finally, she nods. “I’m alright.”

Sandor scoffs. “Bullshit.” Before she can protest, he scoops her up and deposits her on the couch.

Tyrion hefts himself up onto the coffee table and props his chin in his hands, watching Sansa curiously as Sandor turns back to the kitchen.

Sandor returns a moment later, carrying a tray containing a steaming bowl of stew and a few buttered rolls along with a glass of water and her prescriptions.

“What?” Sansa snaps, a bit peevishly, when Tyrion still hasn’t said anything.

Tyrion grins. “It’s entertaining. You’ve turned the godsdamned Hound into a lapdog.”

“Lannister!” Sandor growls from across the room.

“Hound?” Sansa asks curiously.

“You know he was in the army?” Tyron asks, ignoring Sandor entirely.

Sansa nods. “It’s in his biography at the college. He doesn’t like to talk about it,” she adds the last bit quietly.

Tyrion’s expression softens minutely. “Jaime was his commanding officer, you know?”

Sandor growls again.

Sansa’s eyes gleam in interest. “Oh, really?”

Tyrion’s grin returns. “Indeed. And you know how military men are with their nicknames.”

Sansa matches Tyrion’s grin. “And Sandor was the Hound?”

Tyrion nods and hums a vaguely affirmative sound. “Tenacious, you know. Like an old war dog.”

Sansa laughs delightedly.

“Oi!” Sandor snarls. “Are you gonna come play poker or keep harassing the girl, Lannister?”

Tyrion shrugs. “She’s much prettier company than you lot.”

Sansa pops her pain pill in her mouth and swallows it with a swig of water. “She’s going to be rather incoherent company in about twenty minutes.”

By the time the last of their little group arrives, Sansa is on a happy, floaty cloud.

The man who walks in is almost as tall as Sandor, and has a wild beard and a head full of hair even more red than Sansa’s. He beams at the sight of her sprawled on the couch. “Clegane! You didn’t tell us you were shacking up with a ginger!” He plops down on the couch without so much as a by-your-leave and settles Sansa’s legs across his lap. “Hello, gorgeous.”

Sansa giggles. “You look like a Wildling.”

“I’m named after one, too. Tormund. Familiar with Wildlings, lass?”

Sansa nods loosely. ‘I’m from the North. Winterfell.”

“Winterfell? Know Jon Snow?”

Sansa tries to sit up and ends up flailing a bit.

Tormund catches her arms and helps her right herself easily. “Easy, lass.”

“Jon’s my cousin!” Sansa tells him excitedly.

Tormund cocks her head at her. “Sansa, then?”

She nods vigorously.

He winks at her. “It’s no wonder he didn’t introduce us, you know?”

“Oh?”

Tormund nods, eyes shining. “Gingers are kissed by fire. Blessed by the gods. Jonny Boy probably knew we’d be fast friends and he was scared we’d become besties and leave him out of the loop.”

Sansa giggles madly.

Tormund chuckles. “Happy little thing, aren’t you?”

“She’s stoned out of her mind,” Tyrion calls. “Now leave her be and get your ass over here so I can take your money.”

Tormund rolls his eyes, but stands, tucking a blanket over her legs as he goes. “Shove it, imp! I’m coming. What do I smell?”

Bronn nods toward the kitchen. “The girl made stew and rolls.”

Tormund beelines for the kitchen, and takes a spoonful of soup right out of the pot. He groans happily. “Clegane, if you don’t put a ring on this woman’s finger, I will!”

“Fuck off, ginger!” Sandor snarls.

“Aren’t you fucking her cousin?” Bronn asks.

Tormund makes a cutting gesture across his throat.

Sansa props herself up enough to peer over the back of the couch. “Jon’s gay?”

Tormund blushes. “Er… bi.”

“Huh… he never said.” She smiles at Sandor. “I like your friends, Sandor.”

“My friends are assholes, Little Bird. You like everyone.”

Sansa scrunches her nose. “I do not.”

Sandor’s eyes shine in challenge. “Name three people, right now, that you don’t like.”

“Joffrey, Cersei, Baelish,” Sansa answers without hesitation.

“Petyr Baelish?” Sandor asks. “The sociology professor?”

Sansa shudders and drops back onto the couch.

“Little Bird?” Sandor questions, standing from his chair.

“May I, Sansa?” Tyrion asks quietly.

Sansa’s hand appears above the back of the couch, waving vaguely.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Sansa’s hand shapes a vague thumbs up, then drops.

“Sit down, Clegane.”

Sandor hesitantly sits.

“Sansa has had a restraining order against Petyr Baelish,” Tyrion explains, “since her freshman year of college. Baelish has a history, you see, with her mother’s family. When Sansa started attending school here, Baelish stalked her, then progressed to attempting to groom her, and when he did not succeed, set about harassing, and eventually assaulting her.”

Sandor growls.

Sansa giggles. “You even growl like a dog.”

“Hush, you,” Sandor chides.

Sansa just giggles again. “I’m not scared of you.”

“You’ve got more balls than most men, then, lass,” Tormund tells her. “Now are we gonna play poker or not?”

Sansa ends up dozing on the couch as Tyrion wipes the floor with the other three. He squeezes Sansa’s shoulder as he leaves.

She blinks her eyes open and smiles blearily. “Bye, Tyrion.”

“Until next time, my dear.” He leans close, so only she can hear him. “I will deny it to my last breath if you repeat it, but Sandor is a good man. He will do right by you.” He brushes a gentle kiss across her forehead then moves toward the door. “Let’s go, Bronn! Bar is still open for two hours!”

“You’re buying, ya wee shit. You fucking wiped me out,” Bronn retorts. “Later, Clegane.” He nods down at Sansa. “Miss Stark.”

Tormund, surprisingly, stays and helps Sandor clean up the poker table, so the dishes, and stow the leftovers. Sansa giggles when he rather unstealthily dishes the leftover stew into two containers and keeps one tucked under his arm as he waves goodbye to Sandor. “Until next time, ya grumpy fuck.” He walks over to Sansa, lifts her hands and kisses her knuckles. “Hope you’re still around next time, Sansa.”

Sansa blinks up at him. “Are you really sleeping with Jon?”

Tormund tugs on his beard. “Aye, lass.”

Sansa’s eyes narrow. “ _Just_ sleeping with him?”

Tormund shrugs. “I suppose you could say there’s feelings involved.”

“Good. He deserves people who love him… who treat him right.” She frowns. “If you ever hurt him, I’ll sic Arya on you.”

Tormund’s lips twitch. “I’m sure that’s suitably terrifying in your pain-med induced fog.”

Sansa smiles. “Tell him I said hi.”

“Don’t you talk to him yourself, lass?”

Sansa shrugs. “We… my mom never liked that he lived with us. Didn’t let us be close to him growing up. That’s hard to fix once you’re adults.”

Tormund nods sadly. “I understand, lass. I’m sure Jon would too. You should talk to him.”

“Maybe when she’s not doped on pain meds,” Sandor says. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Tormund rolls his eyes and salutes sloppily, nearly slamming the door on his way out.

Sandor shapes his head. “Fucker.” He moves over to crouch in front of Sansa. “Ready for bed, Little Bird?”

Sansa nods and holds her arms up, lets him carry her back into the bedroom. She snuggles into his side as soon as he sprawls out next to her. “I really do like your friends.”

Sandor shrugs. “Guess they’re not so bad. You seem awfully friendly with Tyrion, considering everything with Joffrey.”

Sansa frowns. “Joffrey and Cersei are the only ones who were ever unkind to me. Tyrion and I have always been an odd sort of friends. Jaime treated me like a kid sister, when he was around. And Tywin is actually the first one who… when Joffrey started hitting me, Tywin is the one who found out and put an end to it. Gods, he’s going to be _livid_ when he finds out about this…”

“Doesn’t care for his grandson?”

Sansa shakes her head. “Tywin thinks he brings shame on the family name.”

Sandor scoffs. “He’s not wrong.”

A few moments pass in silence, and Sansa almost dozes off before another thought occurs to her. “All your friends want me to stay…”

Sandor stiffens, but remains silent.

“I can… when all this is over, I know I can go back to my apartment, but I don’t want to.”

“That’s just the drugs talking, Little Bird.”

She shakes her head. “They make me loopy, not a liar. I like being here with you, it makes me happy, but… I’m imposing. I’m all butted into your life.”

Sandor sighs. “I’m a grouchy old bastard, but life is happier with you in it. The past couple years, just knowing you has made it better, and the past week with you in my home… it actually feels like a home. I am not a good man, Sansa, and I sure as hell don’t deserve for you to, but as long as you want to stay, I won’t be the one to ask you to leave. I’m not usually that selfish, but,” Sandor scoffs, “you make me want more out of life than the shit I’ve let it be.”

“You’re a good man to me,” Sansa says quietly.

“That thing Tyrion said about Baelish?”

Sansa shudders against him in lieu of response.

He pulls her close, holding him as tightly as he dares. “I’ll kill him if I ever see him near you.”

Sansa laughs. “I probably won’t even try to stop you.”

“I’ve killed men for less,” Sandor admits quietly.

“I believe you.” Sansa closes her eyes. “Just don’t get caught. I’d rather have you in my bed than have to visit you through prison glass.”

“No one will ever find his body,” Sandor promises.

* * *

Sansa wakes early the next morning and slides out of bed quietly, careful not to rouse Sandor. She hobbles to the bathroom before going out to start a pot of coffee. Sandor comes out only a few minutes later, and absently drops a kiss to the top of her head as he passes her to get his own cup of coffee. Sansa freezes and stares at him until he slumps into his chair across from her. 

“What?” He grunts, when finally looks up at her.

“You just kissed me.”

Sandor blinks, then chugs half his coffee in one go, and curses when it burns his tongue. “Fuck me.”

Sansa grins. “I think we need to talk first.”

Sandor groans and thunks his head to the table.

Sansa’s grin grows and she reaches out to tug at the small ponytail he’d pulled his hair into when he got up. “Not your forte, I know.”

Sandor raises his head enough to glare at her.

“I may have been a bit woozy, but I do remember our conversation last night. We’ve been dancing around this for almost two years, Sandor.”

Sandor closes his eyes. “I’m not the guy who gets what he wants, Sansa.”

“Have you ever asked for what you want?”

He shakes his head without opening his eyes.

“What do you want, Sandor?”

“I want you to stay… and I want you to stay because you want to stay,” Sandor admits. “I don’t want to give you the world, because that’s ridiculous, but I want a good life, a fucking white picket fence and 2.5 kids. And I want it with you.”

“Then _ask_ , Sandor.”

He forces himself to open his eyes. “Stay?”

“One condition.”

Sandor raises an eyebrow.

Sansa smiles. “Kiss me properly.”

Sandor smiles back.


	6. Boo

“Boo you whore,” Margaery pouts dramatically over their video chat. “That cute detective calls me yesterday to tell me they finally caught the little shit and Gran is letting me come home and you tell me I have to find a new roommate because _you’re_ moving in with Professor Built-Like-a-Brick-Shithouse.”

Sansa laughs. “If I promise to invite you to Sandor’s next poker game, will you stop bitching at me about moving out?”

Margaery’s nose scrunches. “Why in the hells would I want to do that?”

Sansa waggles her eyebrows. “Bronn plays.”

“And who in the hells is Bronn?”

“Oh,” Sansa says innocently. “Detective Blackwater.”

Margaery’s eyes go wide. “You bitch! You’ve been holding out on me.”

Sansa winks.

“Fine,” Margaery heaves a sigh. “But see if you can get him to come help you move.”

“Tramp,” Sansa accuses fondly.

Margaery shrugs unrepentantly.


	7. Sevenmas

"You should have mentioned," Catelyn hisses over the kitchen island.

Sansa frowns. "Mentioned what?"

Catelyn's eyes go heavenward, expression exasperated. "The scars!"

Sansa's eyes harden, but before she can work herself into any kind of outrage, Arya scoffs.

"Gods, Mom, I think the only time she's ever even noticed them, was like, the fraction of a second between seeing him, and deciding she wanted to climb him like a tree," her sister says.

"Arya!" Sansa's protest is weakened by her laughter.

"Am I wrong?" Arya challenges. 

"Girls!" Catelyn cuts them off. "Sansa… still. Or reactions might have been milder if we'd been prepared. Not only for the scars, but for his age, his language, and the fact that he is a professor at your school."

"None of that is relevant, Mother," Sansa says stonily. "He's barely ten years older than me. Perhaps he is a bit crass, but he never speaks unkindly to me, so the cursing seems irrelevant. And he is not _my_ professor. If you're going to be rude, we can leave."

Catelyn's face is slack.

Arya starts clapping. "Go, San! I knew you'd learn to stand up to get one of these days. But seriously, if you go home, you have to take me and Gendry with you."

Sansa rolls her eyes at her sister, then turns her attention back to their mother. "I'll be in the living room when you make your decision. And regardless of if we stay or go, I suggest you apologize to Sandor."

Sansa stalks into the living room and plants herself right in Sandor’s lap.

He wraps an arm loosely around her waist.

In the chair next to them, Robb raises his eyebrows. “Conversation with Mom went that good, huh?”

Sansa just groans and drops her head back against Sandor’s shoulder.

Arya comes in with a case of hard cider in hand, and raises her other hand in a triumphant fist pump before she starts tossing cans to the adult occupants of the room.

Theon raises one pierced brow. “What’re we celebrating?”

“Sansa,” Arya points dramatically, “finally found the Northern steel in her spine and stood up to Mom.”

A cheer sounds throughout the room, followed by the sound of cans cracking open and banging together.

Sansa turns and buries her flaming cheeks in Sandor’s chest, as much to hide her laughter as to hide her blush.

Sandor’s mouth brushes her ear. “I can feel you laughing, Little Bird.”

She turns her face up to his. “Don’t tell them.”

He smiles. “Secret’s safe with me.”

She smiles back and lifts up enough to brush her lips against his.

“Starting the party without me?” A low voice asks from the doorway.

Sansa pulls away from Sandor with a squeal and barrels into Jon.

He catches her with an ‘oomph’. “Good to see you too, San.”

She pulls back enough to smile at him. “I’m just so glad you actually came.”

Jon smiles softly. “How could I not when you asked so sweetly?”

Sansa’s eyes glint mischievously. “You just don’t want Tormund pouting at you for telling me no.”

Jon’s eyes crinkle delightedly. “Aye, maybe that too. Whatever unholy alliance the gods blessed between the two of you is bloody terrifying.”

Sansa grins and releases him long enough for the rest of her siblings to greet him before tugging him over to the couch and dropping back into Sandor’s lap.

Jon offers a hand. “Sandor, then?”

Sandor nods and takes the offered hand. “Jon?”

“Aye.”

Sansa starts laughing.

“What?” Jon asks.

Arya rolls her eyes. “Don’t go out-talking each other now.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Catelyn know I’m here?”

Sansa shakes her head. “I told Dad, but I didn’t want to tell Mom until I was sure you were coming.”

Jon tenses.

Sansa shakes her eyes. “Just tell her the truth; that I invited you. I don’t think I can possibly piss her off any more than I already have.”

Jon’s eyes narrow. “You never piss her off.”

“She did this time,” Arya snickers.

Jon’s eyes go a little wide and disbelieving. “How?”

“I didn’t warn her that Sandor was older, employed by my school,” Sansa ticks off her fingers as she goes, “talks like a sailor, and has scars.”

Jon scoffs. “I should’ve brought Tormund and Ygritte.”

Sansa snorts. “ _Gods_ , we might’ve actually given her a heart attack.”

“Who’re they?” Theon asks.

Jon’s pale skin does _nothing_ to hide the blush that immediately covers his face.

Sansa snickers. “Jon’s boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Theon’s jaw drops, then he laughs. “You dog! I didn’t know you had it in you!

Robb shakes his head. “I kind of wish you had brought them.”

Sansa’s grin is nothing short of evil. “They probably dropped him off. They’re from even further north than Winterfell. Bet they’d be back in less than ten minutes if I texted them.”

Jon lunges, snatching her phone off the coffee table before Sansa can even move. “Don’t you dare.” 

Sansa smiles, too innocently, and looks up at Sandor. “Babe, can I borrow your phone?”

Sandor hands it over silently.

Jon’s face falls. “I hate you. I thought Arya was supposed to be the evil one.”

Sansa rolls her eyes and leans forward to smack a kiss on his cheek. “Chill, Jon. I wouldn’t actually do that to you.”

“I might, though! This could be the best Sevenmas _ever_!” Arya exclaims. “Clegane, can _I_ borrow your phone?”

“Fuck off, Runt,” Sandor grunts.

“Would anyone care to explain,” Ned’s voice carries down the hall, “why your mother is beheading the turkey herself instead of demanding I do it?”

If not for Sandor catching her around the waist, Sansa is fairly sure she would fallen off the couch, she starts laughing so hard.

Ned leans against the living room doorway. “Hello, darling.”

Sansa collects herself enough to stand and hug her father. “Hi, Daddy.”

He pulls back and rests his hands on her shoulders. “You’re not usually the one to laugh at your mother’s moods.”

Sansa shrugs. “I’m not usually the one to cause them, either.”

Ned raises a brow.

“I brought my boyfriend home.”

The brow goes higher.

“Mom doesn’t like him.”

The other brow joins the first.

Sansa bites her lip. “I also invited Jon… she doesn’t know he’s here yet.”

Ned looks over Sansa's shoulder.

Jon stands from the couch nervously. “Uncle.”

Ned releases Sansa and takes the few steps to his nephew and pulls the younger man into a hug. “I’m glad you’re here, Jon.”

Jon hugs him back awkwardly. “Thanks.”

“I owe you an apology, you know. I have for several years. I never… I never should have allowed Catelyn to ostracize you, the way she did, growing up…” Ned steps back and runs a hand over his face. “I never should have allowed her to treat many of you the way she did. I… I love you all dearly, and I am sorry, all of you.”

“We have never doubted your love for us, Dad,” Sansa says softly.

Ned shakes his head. “I am glad of that, but I was far more passive than I should have been. Now, introduce me to this young man of yours.”

Sandor rises from the couch.

Ned blinks. “Perhaps simply ‘man’ is more appropriate than ‘young man’.”

Sansa laughs. “Daddy, this is Sandor. Sandor, my father, Ned.”

Ned offers his hand. “I trust you treat my little girl well.”

Arya snorts. “They’re sickeningly sweet, Dad.”

Sandor shakes Ned’s hand, even as he glares at Arya over his shoulder. “Can it, Squirt.”

Arya sticks her tongue out at him.

Ned grins. “Arya’s stamp of approval is near impossible to gain, you know.”

Arya shrugs. “He saved her life… and threatened to castrate Littlefinger with a rusty fork. It’s kind of hard not to like him after that.”

Ned frowns. “Saved her life… Sansa?”

“Arya!” Sansa protests.

“Oops,” Arya deadpans.

“Sansa?” Ned asks again.

Sansa winces, and her hand unconsciously brushes over the scar covered by her skirt. “Right. So… you remember when I didn’t come home for Thanksgiving?”

Ned’s lips twitch. “It was just a few weeks ago, darling.”

“I was sort of, um… recovering.”

Ned frowns again. “From what?”

“Wormy little Lannister fuck tried to burn her alive,” Sandor growls.

Shouts of outrage fill the room.

Once things quiet down, Sansa takes a deep breath. “Marg’s shift went about two hours longer than mine one night, so I was taking a nap in her jeep. Joffrey and his friends broke the door handles then threw a Moltov cocktail in the backseat. When I woke up and started trying to get out, he threw another into the front seat. Sandor had been up the road eating dinner. He was walking back to his truck and saw… he busted the window out and pulled me out.”

Ned’s expression is devastated. “You didn’t say anything…”

Sansa shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t know how.”

“I live in the same fucking city and I didn’t know until I tried to take dinner over to her apartment one night,” Arya says. “Fucking Joffrey was lurking down the street outside and no one was home.”

Sansa laughs a little wetly. “There’s no telling when the police would have caught him if Arya hadn’t called and told them her sister’s creepy ex was being a stalker.”

Sandor reaches out and tugs her into his chest.

She leans into him, taking a deep breath and calming herself. “She called me after, and I told her I was at Sandor’s.”

“And Joffrey?” Robb asks.

“Still in jail. No bail,” Sansa responds.

“And stuck with a public defender,” Sandor grins.

“But he’s a fucking Lannister,” Theon says.

Sansa shakes her head. “Yes, but other than Cersei, the entire family likes me better than they like him. Tyrion plays poker with Sandor. Jaime is married to one the football coaches from the university. Tywin still sends me birthday presents. He called me, after Joffrey was arrested, and asked if it was true. When I told him it was, he froze Joffrey and Cersei’s accounts and promised no Lannister lawyer would get involved unless it was for my benefit.”

Theon snickers. “You could charm a Dornish viper, San.”

Sansa shrugs.

Sandor scoffs. “She _has_. Oberyn Martell was eating out of the palm of her hand by the end of the workshop he taught at the university last year.”

“You were injured badly?” Ned’s voice brings the conversation back around.

Sansa huffs, but steps away from Sandor and bends to grip the bottom of her maxi skirt, lifting it far enough to reveal the scar on her thigh, still more tender than she cares to admit. “This was the worst of it. The glass from the broken window cut my leg rather deeply when Sandor pulled me free, there was some nerve damage. Another smaller cut on my arm. Several minor burns.” She huffs and flicks an errant curl over her shoulder. “And I had to cut my hair,” she adds irritably.

Theon raises a hand in the air. “Not to be an ass, but… okay, well, maybe a little to be an ass. How the fuck did you end up living with a professor?”

Sansa bites her lift. “Um…”

Arya rolls her eyes. “She took one of his classes, as an elective, like two years ago, because I asked her to take it with me. Pretty sure she wanted him within fives seconds of seeing him. Then they spent several months dancing around each other, followed by about a year of dating without realizing they were dating. Then he saved her life, epiphanies were had, and boom! They’re living together.” She turns to Sansa. “By the way, how the fuck did you live with Margaery for so long? The girl is insane. And _loud_. Any idea who the fuck Bronn is? He always manages to sneak out before I can catch a glimpse.”

Sansa gives up on any sense of decorum and drops to the ground, giggling helplessly. “Gods, I don’t give her enough credit. I thought it would take her longer to get him into bed.”

Sandor scoffs, and scoops her up, depositing her back on the couch. “Bronn’s an even bigger slut than your friend, Little Bird.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Fair. Jon, can I have my phone back, please?”

Jon holds it up. “Promise not to text Tormund or Ygritte?”

Sansa makes a show of considering. “Promise.”

Jon frowns. “Promise not to text Tormund _and_ Ygritte?”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

Jon holds the phone out, then snatches it back. “No phone calls either.”

Sansa groans. “You are _no_ fun! I promise.”

Jon hands her phone over.

 _I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were banging Bronn. I set you up!_ Sansa fires a text off to Margaery. 

_Girls night at my place after the holidays ;)_ Margaery texts back.

Sansa rolls her eyes and tosses her phone back on the coffee table before a thought occurs, and she whips her head around to glare at Sandor over the back of the couch. “You didn’t know, did you?”

Sandor holds his hands up in surrender. “Easy, Little Bird. I didn’t know a fucking thing.”

Sansa frowns. “Oh my gods… Marg didn’t tell me. Bronn didn’t tell you. Do you think they actually _like_ each other and aren’t just banging?”

Ned’s face twists uncomfortably. “Right. Well, as much as I would love listen to my children discuss their friends’ sex lives, I’m going to make sure your mother doesn’t cut her own hand off with that axe.”

* * *

Ned approaches his wife hesitantly. “Can I lend a hand, Cat?”

“No,” Catelyn snaps.

Ned sighs and moves over to haul himself up to sit on the gate. “What, exactly, is it that you’re upset about?”

Catelyn embeds the axe in the old stump they use for the chickens and spins on him, pointing toward the house. “Have you been in there?!”

Ned nods. “I have.”

“Arya… gods, I wish I could be surprised that she brought one of Robert’s bastards home, but she’s always been difficult. But did you see that… that… that _degenerate_ that Sansa dared to bring into my house?!”

Ned raises an eyebrow. “Are you referring to Sandor or Jon?”

“Jon is here?” Catelyn screeches, storming up to the gate.

Ned jumps down and catches her arm. “Stop, Catelyn.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Stop. I have let this go on too long. No more.”

“No more _what_ , Eddard?” Catelyn snarls.

“No more of this insane behavior.” Ned gently steers her away from the gate. “No more ridiculous, unrealistic expectations of our children, especially Sansa. If you can’t see that our girl is _happy_ for the first time in her life, or that the _tenured professor_ , that you referred to as a degenerate, positively dotes on her, you are blind, Cat. No more treating Theon like an outcast because you did not birth him. He is as much our child as the rest of them, and if you don’t feel as though he is, _why_ did we ever adopt him? No more criticizing Arya because she is not the perfect little lady that Sansa pretended to be for your sake. And I know you never approved of Lyanna’s life choices, but gods, Cat, _no more_ taking it out on Jon! Even if Lyanna’s choices were wrong - and just because they were different than yours does not make them wrong - since when is it acceptable to punish children for the sins of their parents? I thank the old gods that our children are wiser than I have ever been. Despite every obstacle we have put in their way their entire lives, they love each other, and support each other as we have never done. No more, Cat. It is finished. Now.”

Catelyn clenches her fists at her sides. “What exactly are you trying to say, husband?”

Ned sighs. “I am saying, Catelyn, that if you cannot respect our children, who they are as people, and the decisions they make for their own lives…” He shakes his head tiredly. “Perhaps it would be best if you went and spent the holidays with your sister.”

Catelyn’s jaw tightens. “I see.”

“I love you, Catelyn, but I should have asked you to see a counselor years ago.”

Caelyn’s eyes flash. “There is _nothing_ wrong with _me_ ,” she snarls. “When you come to your senses, I shall be a Lysa’s.”

Ned steps aside silently, letting her pass through the gate, following her back into the house at a distance. He winces when he hears their bedroom door slam as he steps into the house, followed by drawers and cabinets slamming. He leans against the wall until she stomps down the stairs and slams the front door without so much as a glance backward. He bangs his head back against the wall when he hears the gravel slinging under her car tires a moment later.

“Daddy?” Sansa’s tentative voice pulls him back into reality.

He opens his eyes. “Yes, darling?”

Sansa steps fully out of the living room and into the hall. “Is everything okay?”

He shoves off the wall and starts to nod, then stops and shrugs. “Your mother will be spending the holidays in the Vale.”

Sansa’s eyes widen. “How… why… what? Gods, Dad, are you okay?”

Ned huffs something close to a laugh. “Would it be awful if I said I was relieved?”

Sansa smiles softly. “No.”

Ned closes the distance between them and tucks her under his arm. “Despite the circumstances… I find I am looking forward to spending the holidays with my children,” he glances up to find Robb, Theon, Jon, and Arya poking their heads out of the living room doorway rather unsubtly. A scuffle above draws his attention and he finds Bran and Rickon peering over the bannister, “ _all_ my children, _and_ their significant others, without the perfection of a Tully holiday. It’s been rather too long since we’ve had a proper Stark holiday, don’t you think?”

The approving roar is deafening for such a small group.

Sansa beams and kisses Ned’s cheek. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Ned nods. “I’m afraid that means I’ll need quite a bit of help in the kitchen.”

Sansa laughs. “I’ve got it.”

“Dad?” Bran calls down hesitantly.

Ned tilts his head back, already smiling. “Yes, Bran, you can invite Jojen. I’ll take you to pick him up now, if you like.”

Bran whoops and wheels back to his room.

Robb smiles. “I don’t remember the last time I saw him so excited about anything.”

“Jon,” Sansa sing-songs.

Jon hangs his head. “Go ahead.”

Sansa throws a victorious fist in the air, narrowly avoiding hitting Ned in the face. She grimaces as she pulls her phone from her pocket. “Sorry, Daddy.” She flicks her finger across the screen, and a moment later, it’s ringing on speaker, the screen displaying a man with wild red hair, a full beard, and shining blue eyes.

“My ginger goddess,” a cheerful voice answers.

Sansa laughs. “You haven’t gotten too far away, have you?”

“Less than an hour away. Got stuck behind a semi that doesn’t know how to fucking drive in the North.”

“Well turn around and come back. Now.”

“Demanding. Jonny Boy change his mind?”

Sansa raises an eyebrow at Jon.

Jon sighs and comes close. “Aye. Come back. Please.”

“Both of us?” A female voice asks.

Ned’s brows disappear into his hairline.

Jon closes his eyes. “Aye, love. Both of you, Ygritte… please?”

“Be there soon,” Ygritte answers, voice softer, before the line clicks dead.

Jon looks at Ned.

Ned can’t help it - he starts laughing.

“Uncle?”

Ned puts his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“Um…” Jon’s feet shuffle nervously.

Ned shoves himself back upright. “Gods, sometimes you remind me too much of your mother.”

“I… what?”

Ned smiles sadly. “What we told you, when you were growing up, about your father being married and you being the result of an affair… it was at Catelyn’s insistence, because in her twisted mind, an affair was more acceptable than polyamory. Your father _was_ married, but your mother was involved with him _and_ his wife.”

“I… um… I think I need to sit down.”


End file.
